


Becoming Strange(r)

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Sherlock (TV), Strangelock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Brain Damage, Conflicted John Watson, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Tags Contain Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: John Watson never thought he would have to deal with the loss of Sherlock Holmes ever again. Sadly fate works in very strange ways.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Stephen Strange/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DAngeles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAngeles/gifts).



> This story is a long time in the making, and with the inspiration of DAngeles' story, "Ever the Strange Case", it has now finally on the page. Thank you for your wonderful assistance and late night conversations be with me. 
> 
> You are truly a muse for the Everstrange and Johnlock fandoms. My appreciation for you is beyond mortal words. ❤️
> 
> Betaread by LaKoda0518.

In the years that have allowed John Watson's hair to slowly drift from the golden blonde of summer time to the frost of a wintery silver, two facts have always stayed resolute. 

  1. He was a doctor before anything else. 
  2. He was the only known person alive who could tolerate being the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. 



Today would be another exercise in both of these realities as John sat  at an outside table at Speedy's  with a newspaper in hand. His dark blue eyes moved from left to right  over a random article highlighting the latest football scores , then to an editorial on an updated television show that he vaguely remembered had a bubbly redhead with a high pitched laugh that really didn’t suit her. 

He hummed in a thoughtful sort of way; his brow furrowed at some business to do with a robbery of a fish and chip shop only a few miles away. With a ruffle the newspaper was pulled roughly from his fingers a s his eyes met with the  world’s only consulting detective. His mouth in a deep frown and aqua eyes narrowed as if Dr. John Hamish Waston was the most vacant creature he had ever seen. 

“Oh for the love of  _ Christ _ ,” John yelped, his hand placed against his chest in the classic _ ‘you almost gave me a fucking heart attack’ _ . “When the bloody hell did you even get here?”

Sherlock tutted, as he always did at both John’s overuse of cursing and dramatics. 

“Love should only be given to those who actually exist, John,” Sherlock purred, “and even  _ that’s _ highly debatable. As for me, I have been sitting here painfully watching you waste your time on an ancient way to consume your data for the past eight minutes and thirty three seconds.”

John blinked, and then glanced over to the folded paper now resting on the table along with a cooling cup of coffee. 

“Ancient way to consume...you mean my newspaper?”

“Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes and pointedly picked up the newly purchased cup of coffee. The hope that his annoyed sips could morph into morse code with phrases like “You’re being a wanker” and  _ not everyone needs to be glued to their bloody phone.  _ Luckily Sherlock spoke fluent “annoyed John _ ” _ and at least for the rest of their breakfast tried to be somewhat more civil. He even ate half of the bacon and egg sandwich that John had ordered for him. 

After breakfast, they headed to The Yard to meet up with a stressed Greg Lestrade who ushered them into his office and locked the door before sitting down at his desk. John quirked an eyebrow at this and glanced over to Sherlock, who seemed to not find that odd at all. The DI spent a few moments shuffling through some papers on his desk, and then pushed a folder towards Sherlock. 

“It’s the third one in the last two months,” Greg said, his voice soundingstrained and exhausted. “We don’t know what to make of ‘em. All different ages and races. Two males from last month and then yesterday was female. Only link we have so far is that they all fell from great heights and all but one died on sudden impact. The woman, Georgina Parish, died in hospital from her injuries this morning. Never regained consciousness.” 

John frowned deeply, then pulled the manilla folder closer to himself and opened it carefully, as if it were something precious that needed to be respected. In the background he could tell that Sherlock was asking questions and Greg answering them as best he could. The photos were in vivid color and didn’t hide the way that bodies twist and shatter when broken. John  blinked as the hollow, dark brown eyes of Nathan Jones - victim number two, age twenty-seven - morphed into a startling silver-blue.  Victim #2, age 27 in photo # 35, ripple into that of a startling silver blue. The round face slimmed down to reveal striking cheekbones and the short mousy brown hair grew into a dark mop of elegant curls. Somewhere in an area of John’s mind that had laid dormant for over three years, there was a sudden rush of sound. 

“John?”

His name was being called. Somewhere off in the distance, the tone soft and worried. The world reappeared, fast and fuzzy around the edges. John blinked back into the dimly lit office of DI Lestrade, who was staring at him as a friend who had seen something he wouldn’t be able to ignore. 

“There you are, mate…” Greg said. His facial muscles were still tense, but he tried to smile. “Thought we lost you for a moment. You ok?”

John nodded, although he could already sense Sherlock detecting not only the lie, but the severity of it. 

“Yeah, just...need a bit of fresh air. Need the loo.”

The folder of papers on the case fell to the floor as John stood up, but he didn’t look back. Instead, he kept moving forward out of the door, legs shaking but still with military gait intact as before either of the other men could object. Sally Donovan froze in place with a mug of coffee to her lips as she watched a man, whom she had never seen even mildly out of his depth, fly to the men’s toilets. The door swung back and forth on its hinges, and the retching noises echoed loud enough for the entire police department to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a new chapter! Thank you for your patience, DAngeles for the inspiration and to LaKoda0518 for the throughout Betaread. 
> 
> Comments and kudos can be left in the tip jar below if so desired. ❤️

“John?”

Sherlock’s deep timbre was suited for the echo of a bathroom. It reminded John strongly of the church bells he used to hear in his childhood as he ran away from neighborhood bullies. That was before he had learned to use his smaller stature as an advantage, of course. Before his fists became the best line of defense and running was no longer the only option. 

He groaned in response, and the swooshing sound of Sherlock’s coat almost sounded fretful.  As John wiped his face, he realized that the idea of Sherlock seeing him this vulnerable was probably quite a sight. The beads of sweat and tinge of green that always accompanied an unexpected trip to the bathroom,  clung to his skin, his hands shaking as if he had just run a winter marathon while wearing nothing but his pants.  The more John thought about it, he was certain that had left his dignity somewhere between  DI Lestrade’s office and the small latch on the bathroom stall. 

“I’m fine,” John said, but his stomach begged to differ as a new clench of muscles pushed him to lose the rest of his Speedy’s breakfast. And quite possibly part of his spleen as well. His vision was getting quite a bit blurry at the moment. 

However, because Sherlock was so incredibly  _ Sherlock _ , the sound of a restroom door being jostled was expected. John sighed, reaching up to flush the toilet and then sat down on the seat before finally opening up the stall. Framed in the doorway, Sherlock stood, all six feet of him even more imposing from John’s current vantage point. 

“You don’t seem to be fine,” Sherlock said, very matter of factly. “If going by the state of the noises that I heard moments ago. Was it Speedy’s that made you ill? That new cook they have is sleeping with the owner’s wife, so it’s very likely that he was distracted and undercooked the - “

“Stop…” John groaned as his stomach gave another angry lurch. “No deducing while I’m in this state. Don’t think my body can deal with it.” Another twist of John’s lower intestines confirmed this and he fought to not puke all over Sherlock’s “way too expensive to be chasing criminals down mucky alleyways” shoes. 

Sherlock took a small step back as if John’s thoughts were being telegraphed on his forehead, and, with an unnecessary flourish pulled out a silk dark blue handkerchief from his inner pocket and handed it to John. With a small grunt of thanks, John wiped first his browline and then flipped the soft cloth to the other side to give his mouth a once over. All the while Sherlock monitored his movements. Perhaps he was documenting them in some sort of section of his mind palace library labeled “Things That John Watson Does When he Freaks Out During a Level 9 Case.” 

The swinging door of the restroom opened up again and with it another voice that John unfortunately recognized. “You two all right in here?”

“Just feeling a bit rough Greg,” John replied. The handkerchief was hastily placed in his back pocket right as Lestrade rounded the corner to stand next to Sherlock. 

“Need me to get you a lift to hospital,” Greg asked. His worried expression darted from John to Sherlock, and then back to John again. “Saint Bart’s is closest if you think you need - “

As if a button was pushed somewhere right behind John’s belly button, another roar of nausea made its way from his stomach and he barely made it off of the toilet and back onto his knees to be sick once again. Vaguely, he heard the sound of Greg cursing as he closed the stall door shut to give John a shred of privacy. 

The panic attack was back now and in full effect. That was more than a bit not good. These triggers weren’t supposed to happen anymore. Yet, here John was with the same feelings as before when Sherlock had returned from the dead. The exception of that this time he had an audience of two there to watch him fall into a million pieces. With another flush and another wipe from the handkerchief and John knew what those inflections in Greg’s tone meant. It meant that regardless of what John said to try to tell the Detective Inspector that he just needed a minute to get back into the swing of blood splatter, Greg would muscle him into a police car and take him directly to an A & E. He didn’t think that he had the strength for a brand new therapist asking him to express his feelings as to why Sherlock’s faked death still carried this much weight. 

Outside Greg’s patience was running thin as he attempted to pull Sherlock from the bathroom, quite forcibly by the huffy noises that Sherlock made as he successfully managed to only be yanked a couple of meters from his initial spot. 

“Give him some space,” Greg grumbled. “Doesn’t need us being mother hens.”

Another huff was heard and, finally he was alone in the restroom once more. 


End file.
